


shot in the dark (carry you home)

by Anonymous



Series: walli's witcher fics [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Fandom Bingo, Ficlet, Found Family, Gen, Grieving, Parenthood, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: farm(noun)⠀⠀⠀♥ a plot of land, usually with a house, barn, silo, etc., devoted to agricultural purposesfarm(verb)⠀⠀⠀♥ to cultivate⠀⠀⠀♥ to raise
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: walli's witcher fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209218
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	shot in the dark (carry you home)

It’s not where Geralt ever expected to end up spending his retirement; hell, it’s not as if Geralt ever planned to _retire_. But two horrific accidents, several sensational news headlines, and one panicked phone call to Vesemir later, Geralt finds himself loading the combined entirety of his and Ciri’s worldly possessions into the back of his beat-up pickup truck—and it should say something, oughtn’t it, that all of it fits in with room left to spare—and absconding with her to the old family farm at the base of the Blue Mountains.

“Family farm,” of course, is a generous term; none of them have actually lived there at any time within the past decade or so, and neither of them is any sort of blood kin to any of the others. He and his brothers and Vesemir are the last living dregs of the Wolf school, though, and pack is pack is pack, no matter how the miles or the years stretch between them. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Vesemir still held the deed to the old place—and, he supposes in hindsight, he wasn’t. It’s more like gratitude, he imagines: gratitude and silver-steel determination, and above all hope that he and Cirilla can finally, finally get some peace.

* * *

It takes a few days’ worth of hard labor just to whip the farmhouse into a habitable state, and several more on top of that before he can even begin to imagine it as someday being fit to house a princess. Ciri herself doesn’t seem to mind, though, throwing herself into the endeavor right alongside Geralt with a fervor that maybe ought to worry him more, were he not also busy constructing the literal roof above her head. 

At least they’ve escaped the paparazzi.

Geralt would be the first to admit he has no fucking clue what he’s doing, although he doesn’t exactly feel the need to do so, seeing as it’s obvious. He likes to think once they get the house under control, they can dig a little herb garden out back—maybe fix up the barn, or the chicken coop.

Maybe he’ll teach her to fight.

The first time he finds Ciri sobbing her eyes out, crumpled on the wet kitchen floor with a white-knuckle grip on the broken mop handle, his gut drops in about the same way it had when he’d first realized what it meant for him that Calanthe and Eist both were dead. 

In order, he: 

1) panics,

then: 

2) despairs, 

then: 

3) treads towards her, slowly and softly, as though she’s a wild animal that he’s trying desperately not to spook. He gets down onto his own knees beside her and lays each of his hands over hers, patiently waiting until she relaxes her grip and lets him lay the mop on the floor. 

They sit like that for a while, just holding hands, cold, soapy water seeping into their clothes. Ciri lays her head against Geralt’s shoulder as her sobs give way to quiet sniffles. 

Geralt can typically tell when someone’s expecting him to speak; the problem for him has always been figuring out the correct thing to say. “We can drive into town and get pizza for dinner...if you want,” is what he settles on.

Ciri huffs, trembling quiet laughter, and lets out one more hiccupping sob before nodding _yes_ and turning to wipe her snotty, wet face against his sleeve. 

Geralt loves her more than he’s ever loved anything in his entire long life.

**Author's Note:**

> for bikm february bingo
> 
> anything can be a farming sim au if you just _believe_


End file.
